me 


*-T 


T 


A  LITTLE  BOOK: 


TO  OBTAIN  MEANS  FOR 


PLACING   A    MEMORIAL  STOXE  UPON   THE   GRAVE 
OF  THE  POET 


HENRY  TIM  ROD. 


FOR  PRIVATE  CIRCULATION. 


PUBLISHED   FOR    THE  COMMITTEE,  BY 

WALKER.  EVANS  ,t  COGSWELL,  PRINTER 


COMMITTEE. 


As  soon  as  sufficient  means  are  obtained,  the  Stone,  with 
nn  appropriate  inscription,  will  be  placed  upon  t-he  grave, 
under  the  direction  of  the  following  gentlemen  : 

IIox.  Iin;ii  s.  THOMPSON, 
State  Superintendent  of  MiiK-nti,,,,,  •  <',,!,  imi>\«.  8.  C.) 


PK«»K.  F.  A.  POKCHER. 
Prest.  So.  C'i.  Hixtoriral  8<>cictii.  •  C?i>ir/i.'*t»/i,  \. 

Pi:ol.  JAMEs  H.  CARLISLE, 
Prest.  of   M'i,rr,,,-(l  r<,lle</>'.  <  Xixirtanbtirij,  S.  C\) 

REV.  ELLISON  CAPERS. 

(  Gri  cnrillr.  \.  f\, 


274552 


Believing  that  you  share  with  us  in  a  high  appreciation  of  the 
pin-til-  genius  of  Henry  Tirnroil,  we  taki-  pleasurw  in  presenting 
this  ••  LITTLK  BOOK  "  which  has  heen  published  for  private  circu 
lation. 

The  undersigned  have  in  contemplation  the  erection  of  a 
-Memorial  Stone  on  Timrod's  Grave,  which  has  remained  un 
marked  since  his  burial  in  1XU7,  as  a  simple  honor  to  the  memory 
of  one  whose  merits  as  a  Poet  are  everywhere  acknowledged. 

The  contribution  from  each  friend  who  receives  this  "  LITTLK 
HOOK''  of  from  S:>  to  .-?">,  will  ensure  the  means  of  paying  this 
tribute. 

The  author  of  the  pieces  which  make  up  this  little  volume- 
Prof  WM  .}.  KIVKIIS  desires  us  to  add  for  him,  that  the  writing 
ot  verses  has  been  with  him,  as  with  many  of  us,  an  occasional 
pastime;  and  that  he  hopes  the  lack  of  merit  in  those  here  given 
will  be  no  bar  to  your  generous  consideration  of  the  good  object 
which  their  publication  is  designed  to  accomplish. 
Very  respectfully, 

IITGII    S.  THOMPSON. 

GEORGE  S.  BRYAN. 

V.  A.  PORCHER. 

JAMES    II.  CARLISLE. 

ELLISON  CAPERS. 

Maj.  II.  S.  Thompson.  Columbia  S.  C.,  liu*  kindly  consented  to 
act  as  Treasurer,  and  receive  such  amounts  as  you  may  feel  able  to 
contribute. 


THE  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  HENRY  TIMROD'S  POETRY, 
AND  His  RANK  AS  A  POET. 


A  LECTURE  TO  THE  STUDENTS  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

SOUTH  CAROLINA.  DELIVERED  SHORTLY  AFTER 

MIL  TIMROD'S  DEATH. 


YOUNG  GENTLEMEN  :  It  is  not  often  that  an  opportunity 
occurs  to  impress  upon  you  the  instructions  which  you 
here  receive  by  pointing  to  examples  within  the  range  of 
your  personal  knowledge.  Such  an  opportunity  occurs  this 
evening.  You  have  read  or  are  reading  the  poems  of  an 
cient  and  modern  nations  ;  and  you  have  no  doubt  thought 
that  it  would  be  a  source  of  gratification  to  you,  had  you 
known,  as  you  know  one  another,  the  writers  whose  beauti 
ful  productions  have  filled  you  with  rapture  and  admiration. 
Such  a  gratification  your  memory  will  now  afford  you  in 
the  instance  of  one,  who  though  not  among  the  highest 
poets  of  the  world,  is.  perhaps,  the  best  of  the  departed 
poets  our  State  has  given  birth  to.  To  you,  when  you  shall 
have  completed  your  education  here,  it  will  belong,  as  au 


.  s 


especial  duty,  to  recognize  literary  merit  and  be  its  promo 
ters  and  guardians  in  the  communities  in  which  you  may 
live ;  and  such  an  exercise  of  recognition  and  kindly  re 
gard,  though,  alas!  to  the  dead  and  not  to  the  living  !  you 
are  invited  to  participate  in  on  this  occasion.  To  some  of 
you  may  be  allotted  the  pen  of  the  poet,  and  it  may  be 
hereafter  your  solace  and  chief  delight  to  receive  the  praise 
which  you  now  would  bestow7  upon  the  poor  and  unobtru 
sive  bard  who  came  here  to  spend  the  last  days  of  his  brief 
existence;  and  who  was  accustomed  to  come  frequently  to 
these  peaceful  halls  of  learning,  through  sympathy  with 
our  studies,  or  charmed  by  the  seclusion  of  the  spot;  un 
known  perhaps  to  some  who  saw  him,  unappreciated  per 
haps  by  many  who  knew  him,  till  the  grave  had  closed 
over  him,  and  from  every  direction  throughout  the  country, 
memorials  in  his  praise  began  to  reach  our  ears. 

More  than  twenty  years  ago,  among  the  pupils  of  a 
school  in  which  I  taught,  was  HENRY  TIMROD.  As  he 
was  then,  diffident,  modest,  with  a  nervous  utterance,  yet 
'.with  melody  ever  in  his  thoughts  and  on  his  lips — so,  with 
no  change  through  all  these  years,  he  appeared  to  me  when 
I  visited  him  a  few  days  before  he  died  ;  still  almost  a 
child  in  simplicity  of  demeanor  and  purity  of  sentiment,  as 
if  his  quiet  heart  knew  not  the  work  it  had  done  in  giving 
forth  from  its  depths  of  feeling,  melodious  songs  ;  as  a  flower 
gives  forth,  at  the  bidding  of  nature,  its  fragrance  when  a 


bud,  its  fragrance  when  its  full  blown  petals  are  unfolded 
to  the  sun,  its  fragrance  when  the  death  dews  bend  its 
yielding  beauty  to  the  dust.  Happily,  he  had  heard  the 
verdict  of  his  generation,  placing  him  among  the  poets  of 
his  country — a  just  verdict,  which,  we  doubt  not,  posterity 
will  sanction  forever. 

There  is  little  of  what  is  called  achievement  to  record  of 
one  who  avoided  the  busy  world  from  an  inaptitude  for  its 
conflicts,  and,  it  may  be,  from  a  disdain  of  its  pursuits. 
The  life  history  of  such  a  one,  is  but  a  story  of  the  affections 
or  a  delineation  cf  intellectual  development.  Still  such  a 
life  has  its  lesson  for  us,  as  all  lives  have.  The  qualities 
of  manhood  may  oftener  be  displayed  in  enduring  ills, 
struggling  against  temptations,  and  triumphing  in  self- 
sacrificing  duties,  than  in  leading  armies  or  dying  amidst 
the  plaudits  of  the  multitude.  In  this  view  there  is  much 
to  admire  in  Mr.  Timrod's  endurance  and  perseverance, 
under  circumstances  calculated  to  oppress  and  dishearten. 
From  his  youth  he  often  suffered  from  spells  of  ill  health, 
premonitions  of  the  fatal  disease  which  brought  him  to  the 
tomb.  For  some  years  his  strength  had  been  failing,  and 
since  the  close  of  the  war  it  had  been  his  lot  to  bear  more 
serious  privations  than  even  his  friends  were  aware  of. 
Through  all  his  days  the  poet's  inheritance  was  his— unre 
quited  performance  and  a  continual  struggle  with  adversity. 
Yet,  through  all  his  days  he  refused  to  court  the  prosperous. 


10 


The  sensitiveness  of  his  disposition,  and  a  certain  pride  of 
independence,  made  him  shrink  from  the  extended  hand  of 
patronage.  He  felt  that  he  also  had  his  riches,  and  conld 
impart  them  freely  too — the  riches  which  nature  lavished 
upon  him  throughout  her  beauteous  domain,  from  the  purl 
ing  brook  at  his  feet,  up  through  the  waving  trees,  and 
higher  than  the  singing  birds  can  soar,  to  the  sparkling 
diamonds  in  the  sky.  The  rich,  indeed,  partook  of  his 
riches ;  but  did  not  force  upon  the  reluctant  poet,  as  they 
should  have  done,  a  portion  of  their  own,  that  his  time 
might  have  been  devoted  to  the  mission  which  destiny  had 
assigned  him.  His  literary  toil  was  to  him  a  self-reward 
ing  toil,  it  brought  him  neither  food  nor  clothing  —  yet, 
with  no  ill  will  towards  any,  with  no  envy,  with  no  repining 
at  fortune's  meagre  favors,  he  lived  ;  and  to  the  last,  whis 
pering  graceful  verses,  he  died,  and  left  us  to  regret  that 
we  did  not  prize  him  more.  Such  is  the  lesson  of  his  life. 
When  a  boy,  Mr.  Timrod's  talents  attracted  attention 
and  secured  him  many  friends.  Their  names,  could  they 
with  propriety  be  mentioned  on  this  occasion,  would  indi 
cate  the  more  than  ordinary  appreciation  which  marked 
the  opening  of  his  career  as  a  poet.  His  early  efforts  not 
only  gave  promise  of  correctness  of  taste  and  beauty  of 
language,  but  also  of  that  personal  feeling  or  heart  expe 
rience  which  characterizes  all  he  has  written.  Like  Byron, 
if  he  had  been  requested  to  compose  verses  on  a  given  sub- 


11 


ject.  he  would  have  replied  that  he  could  not,  unless  he  had 
personally  known  the  occcasion,  unless  his  own  soul  had 
felt  and  the  instinctive  spirit  of  song  had  been  stirred 
within  him.  This  truthfulness  to  his  own  heart,  this  rev 
erence  for  nature  as  she  was  revealed  to  him,  secured  to 
his  effusions  an  absence  from  affectation  and  from  the  imita 
tion  of  the  writings  of  others.  This  is  the  source  of  his 
excellence — the  foundation  of  his  success  ;  for  this  we  would 
wreathe  a  garland  in  his  honor,  in  that  he  has  given  us  in 
the  charming  language  of  enduring  songs — not  idle  senti 
ments,  insincere  opinions,  or  mere  brilliancy  of  fancy — but 
a  revelation  of  one  more  human  soul  true  to  itself  and  to 
nature.  We  can  trust  to  every  portraiture  of  his  pen  as 
the  genuine  disclosure  of  what  his  heart  experienced.  Does 
he  feel  in  early  youth  the  first  strange  fluttering  of  incipient 
love?  Does  the  awakening  to  disappointment  fill  him  with 
self-tormenting  melancholy?  Is  he  again  and  again  baffled 
when  he  hoped  mutual  affection  would  bestow  peace  and 
joy?  and  does  he  at  last  rest  in  the  haven  he  has  sought, 
to  find  too  soon  that  there  is  no  permanence  of  earthly  blits, 
that  sorrow  is  linked  with  love,  and  that  through  suffering 
the  heart  is  perfected  ?  Yes,  and  he,  too,  when  love  is 
strongest,  must  lay  down  his  love  in  the  tomb  ;  when  life 
is  sweetest,  must  go  down  himself  into  the  chill  waters  of 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  ;  but  with  a  blessing  he 
descends,  for  he  beholds  beyond  the  flood  the  serene  vision 


12 


of  everlasting  permanence,  and  bows  down  in  reverential 
prayer.  All  this  and  much  more  of  his  soul's  experience 
he  has  given  us  in  language  perspicuous,  simple,  and 
melodious. 

The  charms  of  external  nature,  in  those  varied  appear 
ances  which  have,  from  creation's  dawn,  excited  the  admi 
ration  of  poets,  seem  to  have  made  less  early  impressions 
on  Mr.  Timrod's  mind  :  or,  at  least,  such  impressions  seem 
not  so  readily  to  have  evoked  the  power  of  song  as  the  ex 
periences  of  which  we  have  spoken.  Where  another  would 
describe,  as  minutely  almost  as  a  painter  would  put  on  can 
vas,  an  imposing  scene,  a  storm,  a  cataract,  a  gorgeous 
sunset,  Mr.  Timrod,  by  habitual  introversion,  looked  for 
the  blending  of  his  humanity  in  some  phase  of  thought  or 
feeling  with  the  material  objects  before  him — sweet  affec 
tions  with  the  flowers,  gentle  murmurings  with  rippling 
rivulets,  sadness  with  the  drooping  clouds,  courageous 
aspiration  with  the  towering  mountain,  moody  passion  with 
the  howling  tempest.  Could  he  have  been  placed  in  com 
pany  with  the  author  of  Rokeby  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
amidst  the  lovely  scenery  depicted  in  those  poems,  whilst 
the  bard  of  Abbotsford  would  have  thrilled  with  the 
charms  of  the  mute  realities  around  him — our  poet,  yearn 
ing  for  something  beyond  the  objective,  would  sadly  have 
sought  communion  with  the  spirit  of  nature,  and  listened 
to  hear  some  language  in  the  leafy  glens,  some  voice  among 


13 


the  crags  and  rushing  torrents;  not  that  he  loved  the 
beauty  and  the  grandeur  less,  but  because  his  contemplative 
disposition  turned  him  continually  to  interrogate  and  to 
interpret  all  things  in  relation  to  the  nature  within  him. 

If  the  views  thus  briefly  expressed  appear  to  you  to  be 
correct — you  to  whom  Mr.  Timrod's  poems  have  long  been 
familiar — you  will,  no  doubt,  also  think  with  me,  that  a 
tinge  of  melancholy  pervades  his  writings,  appearing  at 
times  as  though  against  his  will,  even  in  the  lighter  produc 
tions  of  his  muse.  And  this — was  not  this,  too,  being  true 
to  himself?  And  in  saying  this  do  we  not  confer  the  high 
est  eulogium  upon  his  poems?  giving  our  record  to  those 
who  knew  him  not,  that  no  false  glitter  or  borrowed  sensa 
tion,  or  ambitious  exhibition  of  imaginative  power  or  poetic 
skill,  engaged  his  pen,  but  that  like  Burns,  he  has  left  us  the 
truth  of  himself  as  he  really  was,  and  felt,  and  loved,  and 
thought,  and  joyed,  and  sorrowed,  and  hoped,  and  prayed. 

Connected  with  this  view  of  Mr.  Timrod's  poetry,  we 
may  notice  another  characteristic  which  may  either  have 
sprung  out  of  this  one,  or  have  resulted  from  a  thoughtful 
consideration  of  what  a  poet's  mission  should  be.  I  mean 
the  apparent  selection  of  certain  principles  to  guide  him  in 
authorship  —  self-experience,  truthfulness,  and  purity  of 
sentiment. 

Unrolled  before  him  was  the  scroll  of  history,  and  his 
education  had  been  such  as  leads  through  the  literature  of 


14 


ancient  and  modern  times.  Is  it  not,  therefore,  a  mark  of 
genius  that  from  boyhood  he  should  turn  from  these  and 
the  poetic  materials  they  furnished,  to  study  himself,  draw 
ing  his  inspiration  from  the  well  spring  of  his  own  con 
sciousness  ?  And  what  did  he  learn  from  this  study  of 
himself?  He  learned  to  speak  to  the  universal  heart  whose 
symphonies,  he  knew,  would  respond  in  accord  with  his 
own,  only  if  in  his  own,  sincerity  and  purity  prevailed ; 
for  all  that  is  false,  discordant,  and  sinful  is  abnormal  and 
a  perversion  of  nature.  He  made  this  great  law  a  law 
unto  himself,  both  by  preference  of  the  principle  which 
ought  to  direct  whatever  he  might  have  to  say  to  the  world, 
and  from  the  fact  that  he  naturally  sought  what  was  con 
genial  in  that  which  is  innocent,  pleasing,  and  intellectual. 
His  fastidiousness  in  rhythm  also  contributed  to  this  effect — 
I  mean  to  delicacy  and  moral  purity ;  because,  while  for 
each  separate  poem,  he  fashioned  as  it  were  a  polished  cas 
ket  in  which  to  present  it  to  the  public,  it  behooved  him  to 
regard  the  intrinsic  value  of  what  the  casket  should  contain. 
In  his  estimation,  beauty  and  truth  constitute  the  elements 
of  poetry.  The  truth  is  never  sacrificed  to  mere  beauty  in 
his  writings,  and  this  seems  due,  in  addition  to  the  guiding 
principle  he  had  chosen,  to  the  equiponderance  and  happy 
bleudidg  in  his  mind  of  reason  and  fancy.  If  the  latter  of 
these  faculties  with  restless  pinions  hovered  over  the  birth 
of  a  new  song,  the  other  with  restraining  care  calmed  the 


15 


sportive  sprite  to  quiescence  and  thouglitfulness.  Upon  the 
\vhole,  though  he  had  a  most  modest  estimate  of  his  en 
dowments,  he  appears  to  have  understood  his  mission  in  the 
exercise  of  the  gifts  he  was  conscious  of,  guarding  always 
not  only  the  justness,  but  the  chasteness  of  his  sentiments 
and  language,  as  though  his  mission  was  from  Heaven,  and 
he  was  responsible  that  it  should  neither  be  perverted  nor 
debased. 

We  would  not  unclerake  to  say  that  Mr.  Tim  rod  might 
uot  have  been  successful  in  descriptive,  didactic,  heroic,  or 
dramatic  composition,  had  he  lived  longer;  but  none  can 
doubt  his  success  as  a  lyric  poet,  in  delightful  versification 
and  in  the  combination  of  his  conceptions  to  represent 
faithfully  the  emotions  and  passions.  What  he  believed 
he  was  fitted  for,  he  attempted ;  and  in  what  he  attempted, 
hath  he  not  done  well  ? 

The  place  among  poets  which  he  strove  to  gain,  he 
achieved  ;  and  fills  it  with  acknowledged  distinction.  He 
was  often  pointed  out  as  he  passed  along  as  the  minstrel  of 
the  Southern  lyre.  Some  of  his  shorter  lyrics  are  equal  in  *• 
their  vein  to  the  most  exquisitely  fanciful  effusions  of  any 
poet  we  have  read.  What  sweet  wit  graces  the  verses 
called  "  Second  Love,"  in  which  he  pleads  an  excuse  for 
having  loved  another. 

"  It  was  indeed  that  early  lovo, 

l»ut  foretaste  of  this  second  one — 
The  soft  liyftt  of  the  morning  star 
Before  the  morning  Sun.'1 


16 


"  She  mischt  have  been— She  was  no  more, 

Than  what  a  prescient  hope  could  make— 
A  dear  presentiment  of  thee, 
I  loved  but  for  thy  sake.'1'' 

What  ingeniousness  and  felicity  of  expression  abound  in 
the  poem  to  "  Katie,"  coming  from  England,  with  some  of 
England's  sunlight  entangled  forever  in  her  curls.  What 
pleasant  fancies  flit  about  the  "  Lily  Confidante,"  and 
"Baby's  Age,1'  which,  beginning  with  the  buds  of  April, 
hath  its  successive  weeks  marked  by  a  calendar  of  flowers. 
What  archness  in  the  lines  to  "  Florabel."  What  tuneful 
sonnets — distinguished  as  sonnets  ought  to  be — -by  perspi 
cuity,  completeness^  and  artistic  finish,  without  the  show  of 
art.  What  elaborateness  in  the  u  Vision  of  Poesy,"  the 
most  studied  effort  of  his  pen.  These  qualities,  with  a 
)Jiade  at  times  of  gentle  melancholy,  pervade  many  of  his 
compositions;  still,  there  are  occasional  vibrations  of  the 
stronger  passions  when,  as  it  were,  the  tragic  muse,  passing, 
touched  the  chords;  as  in  the  address  to  the  "  Spirit  of 
Storm,"  and  in  the  thrilling  pathos  of  a  "  Mother's  Wail." 
But  why  should  we  enumerate  the  excellencies  of  writings 
in  which,  it  may  be  said,  there  is  nothing  inferior,  nothing 
Undeserving  praise,  and  a  great  deal  that  challenges  admi 
ration. 

Had  the  writings  of  Mr.  Tirarod  been  confined  to  the 
simple  subjects  of  the  volume  he  published,  the  prevailing 


17 


prettincssof  his  fancies,  the  gracefulness  and  melody  of  his 
versification,  his  truthfulness  and  purity  might  have  asso 
ciated  his  name  with  the  gentlest  of  minstrels,  who  with 
lute  in  hand,  preferred  to  sing  in  shaded  bowers,  or  strolling 
along  some  flowery  stream  ;  and  who,  if  occasionally  snatched 
up  among  the  whirling  clouds  of  thought  or  passion,  would 
always  be  most  happy  to  return,  as  he  says  himself  in  one 
of  his  sonnets,  to 

"  Cling  to  the  lowly  earth  and  ho  content. 
So  shall  thy  name  he  dear  to  many  a  lu'art, 
So  shall  the  nohh-st  truths  hy  thee  he  taiiirht  — 
The  {lower  and  fruit  of  wholesome  human  thought, 
HI  ess  the  sweet  labors  of  thy  gentle  art." 

There  is,  however,  another  and  a  higher  view  of  Mr. 
Tim  rod  as  a  poet  ;  for  his  productions  at  successive  periods 
of  his  life,  exhibit  an  improvement  which  was  the  result  of 
continued  .-tudv  and  training  in  his  art.  The  terrible  reali 
ties  of  our  late  eventful  history,  roused  him  as  nothing  else 
on  earth  could  have  roused  him  :  and  in  the  excitement  of 
his  soul  he  strung  his  lyre  to  more  exalted  themes,  and 
poured  forth  in  quick  succession  many  spirited  odes,  which 
give  him  rank  among  the  foremost  lyric  poets  of  America. 
Strange,  that  one  uho  had  been  so  long  wedded,  like 
Horace  and  Anacreon,  to  peaceful  ditties  of  the  u n warlike  / 
lute,  should  have  been  like  Ivorner,  so  carried  away  by  X 
inspiration  when  he  heard  the  bugle  blasts  of  conflict.  We 


18 


need  not,  perhaps,  recall  to  your  recollection  the  beautiful 
introductory  lines  of  the  "  Ethnogenesis,"  when  a  new 
nation  seemed  born  into  the  world : 

"  Hath  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added  light 
And  shall  not  evening  call  another  star 
Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 
To  mark  this  day  in  heaven?" 

And  who  does  not  remember  his  battle  hymn,  "  Caro 
lina  !"  the  recitation  of  which,  it  is  said,  caused  crowded 
audiences  to  rise  to  their  feet? 

Who  does  not  remember  the  calm  and  classic  ode  to  the 
old  city,  where 

"  Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 
Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep." 

Who  does  not  remember  that  masterly  production, 
"  Christmas,"  or  a  prayer  for  peace,  which  passed  the  bor 
ders  of  conflict  and  was  re-echoed  through  the  North.  We 
^consider  it  one  of  the  best  odes  our  country  has  produced. 
I  am  almost  unwilling  to  quote  from  it ;  for,  like  a  well 
proportioned  temple,  it  will  not  bear  a  separation  into  parts. 
The  time  is  Christmas  in  Charleston,  and  the  poet  asks : 
"How  shall  we  grace  the  day?"  The  chimes  of  St. 
Michael's,  that  for  generations  had  rung  in  the  gleeful 
Christmas  morn,  had  been  removed.  Sad  changes  had 
come  over  many  hearts  and  many  homes.  Mirth  would  be 


19 


out  of  place  in  numerous  families,  for  the  loved  ones  at  the 
festive  hearth  a  year  before,  were  keeping  now  their  "mute 
Christmas  beneath  the  snow"  that  mantled  the  stained 
battle-fields  throughout  the  land.  The  ode  proceeds  : 

"  I  low  shall  wo  grace  the  day? 
Ah  !  U-t  the  thought  that  on  this  holy  morn 
The  Prince  of  Peace— The.  Prince  of  Peace  was  born, 

Employ  us,  while  we  pray  ! 

Pray  for  the  peace  which  long 
Hath  left  the  tortured  land,  and  haply  now 
Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  mountain's  brow, 

There  hardly  safe  from  wrong. 


Lot  every  sacred  fane 

Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the  shrine  of  God, 
And,  with  the  cloister  and  the  tented  sod, 

Join  in  one  solemn  strain  ! 


"With  pomp  of  Roman  form 

With  the  grave  ritual  brought  from  England's  shore, 
And  with  the  simple  faith  which  asks  no  more 

Than  that  the  heart  be  warm  ! 

Ho,  who  till  time  shall  cease, 

Will  watch  the  earth,  where  once,  not  all  in  vain, 
He  died  to  give  us  peace,  may  not  disdain 

A  prayer  whose  theme  is — peace. 

Perhaps  ere  yet  the  Spring 
Hath  died  into  the  Summer,  over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 


20 


Oh  !  ponder  what  it  means  ! 
Oh  !  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every  way  ! 
Oh  !  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the  coming  scenes  ! 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dales, 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men  ; 
Peace  in  the  woodland,  and  the  lonely  glen, 

±Jeace  in.  the  peopled  vales ! 

Peace  in  the  crowded  town, 
Peace  in  a  thousand  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway,  and  the  flowery  lane, 

Peace  on  the  wind  swept  down  ! 

Peace  on  the  farthest  seas, 

Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  whereso'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 

And  peace  in  every  breeze  ! 

Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 

Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  the  hunter  roams, 
Peace,  God  of  peace  !  peace,  peace,  in  all  our  homes, 

And  peace  in  all  our  hearts  !  " 

Such  is  the  well  merited  position  Mr.  Timrod  has  gained 
among  lyric  poets.  When  it  was  announced  to  him  a  few 
weeks  ago  that  his  life  could  not  be  prolonged,  "  must  I  so 
soon  depart,"  he  said,  "  who  hoped  to  achieve  so  much  ?" 
And  though  Death's  icy  hand  was  upon  him,  he  still  occu 
pied  himself  with  the  "gentle  art"  which  had  been  the 
solace  of  his  life.  His  disease  was  one  which  generally 
leaves  the  intellect  unclouded,  refines  the  sensibilities,  and 


21 


gives  to  the  mind  visions  more  distinct  and  clearer  thoughts ; 
and  it  was,  therefore,  natural  that  he  should  look  with  fond 
regret  upon  the  silent  lyre — in  the  dust — at  his  feet — un 
strung  forever  ! 

I  have  not  deemed  it  suitable,  on  this  occasion,  to  enter 
into  a  display  of  Mr.  Tirarod's  merits  by  attempting  a 
critical  exposition  of  his  poems  ;  this,  if  indeed  there  shall 
be  need  of  it,  must  be  left  to  essays  and  reviews  when  his 
collected  works  shall  have  been  published  ;  nor  has  it 
seemed  proper  to  prepare  a  sketch  of  his  life,  or  of  his  char 
acter  ;  this  will  be  done  by  a  fitter  pen  than  mine.  But, 
while  yet  the  sod  is  fresh  upon  his  grave — while  yet  the 
cheeks  of  those  who  loved  him  are  wet  with  tears — some 
brief  tribute  like  this  seemed  due  to  his  memory  from  us 
among  whom  he  died,  and  who  cannot  view  with  indiffer 
ence  the  loss  which  the  cause  of  letters  has  sustained  in  the 
early  death  of  Henry  Timrod. 

You,  young  gentlemen,  whose  generous  sympathies  are 
ever  readily  awakened  in  behalf  of  the  struggling  sons 
of  genius  of  whom  you  read,  and  who,  perhaps,  have 
dropped  a  tear  over  the  fate  of  a  Chatterton  or  a  Keats, 
will  not  fail  to  be  instructed  by  this  notice  of  one  who 
possessed  endowments  equal  to  theirs.  Wherever  literary 
excellence  is  observed,  I  am  sure  you  are  attracted  toward 
it ;  and  while  here  you  are  taught  to  admire  the  great 
masters  who  have  bequeathed  to  you  their  noble  works, 


22 


you  should  also  learn,  as  I  said  before,  to  recognize,  in  your 
day  and  generation,  all  that  is  praiseworthy,  and  to 
encourage  and  promote  it.  It  is  seldom,  if  ever,  given 
to  any  one  man  to  combine  all  the  moral  excellencies  that 
appertain  to  our  nature  ;  and  we  may  venture  to  say  that 
never  has  it  been  given  to  one  man  to  possess,  in  their 
highest  degree,  all  the  intellectual  powers  of  which  we  are 
capable.  Among  literary  men,  in  poets  more  than  in  any 
other,  so  large  a  combination  of  rare  qualities  is  required 
to  attain  to  excellence,  that  the  names  of  those  we  call  the 
great  poets  of  the  world  may  be  counted  upon  our  fingers. 
The  highest  type  of  a  poet  (at  least  to  my  mind)  is  King 
David— leaning  upon  his  harp,  with  eyes  upturned  to  the 
God  of  his  inspiration!  Then — through  a  long  interval — 
we  observe  the  solemn  brow  of  intellectual  compass,  and 
the  closed  eyes  of  a  Homer  or  a  Milton  ;  and  near  them  an 
^Eschylus  and  a  Shakespeare;  then  a  Pindar,  and  further 
off  a  vast  assemblage,  among  whom  some  aspire  to  no  more 
than  singing  simple  songs  and  ballads,  yet  to  these  we  give 
honor  too  ;  we  who  lift  up  our  faces  to  the  mighty  oak, 
and  bend  in  admiration  over  the  tiny  flower,  who  gaze 
upon  the  eagle  soaring  in  the  clouds,  and  watch  with  de 
light  the  silver  wings  of  the  butterfly.  If,  in  your  life-time, 
no  transcendent  genius  dawn  upon  the  world  within  the 
range  of  your  recognition,  and  claiming  your  personal 
homage,  yet  many  minor  poets  of  rare  excellence  may 


2.) 


exist,  keeping  alive,  like  the  vestals,  the  flame  upon  the 
altar  — the  flame  that  was  kindled  from  heaven  !  If  you 
refuse  to  listen  to  them,  you  may,  with  churlish  hearts,  1)3 
turning  an  angel  from  your  doors.  When  I  tell  you  that  Mr. 
Timrod  received  for  his  literary  labors  but  a  scant  reward 
—  that  during  all  his  life  he  was  left  to  contend  with  dis 
appointments  and  discouragements,  let  the  lesson  be  worth 
more  to  you  than  a  mere  acknowledgment  that  the  fortune 
of  poets  now  is  much  like  that  of  poets  in  the  olden  time?  ; 
that  the  same  nature  reproducing  them,  reproduces  also, 
those  who  care  not  for  them.  D)  you,  in  your  generation, 
care  for  them,  and  encourage  and  aid  them,  and  honor  them. 
The  subject  opened  before  us  is  a  very  extensive  one,  ami 
suggests  many  interesting  and  instructive  remarks.  B  it  it 
appears  most  consonant  with  the  object  we  have  had  in 
view  on  this  occasion,  to  say  no  more  than  to  add,  in  con 
clusion,  a  thought  which  may  enhance  in  your  eyes  the 
Poet's  mission.  It  is  that  the  world  lias  need  of  such 
gifted  sons  of  song,  not  only  because  by  subtle  skill  and 
charming  melody  they  soothe  the  passions,  nil  the  mind 
with  gentle  emotions,  inspire  us  with  a  love  of  home  and  of 
our  country,  and  of  the  enjoyments  of  peace  and  the  refine 
ments  of  civilization,  and  that  too  by  means  calculated  in 
themselves  to  afford  us  exquisite  gratification  ;  not  because 
they  are  the  immortal  heralds  of  the  people's  glory  (while 

temples  and   statues   and    paintings  and    monuments  are 
3 


24 


crumbling  to  dust),  and  send  forth  their  songs  clothed  with 
"winged  words"  to  the  farthest  habitations  of  men,  while 
the  orator's  voice  at  home  is  hushed  and  the  musician's 
hand  is  still,  and  the  pageantry  of  wealth  and  the  luxurious 
grandeur  of  life  disappear  like  the  grass  that  withereth  ; 
not  because  they  contribute  to  social  and  domestic  happi 
ness,  like  music,  from  which,  indeed,  they  seem  inseparable, 
and  teach  to  the  inert  and  ignorant  heart  a  knowledge  of 
itself,  and  give  to  it  an  appropriate  language  for  its 
thoughts  and  its  affections — but  for  more  than  all  this — 
because  they  continually  remind  us  of  our  immortality. 

Perishing  mortals,  as  we  are,  we  hope  to  ascend  to  those 
radiant  realms  where  the  Eternal  God  is  worshipped  by 
angelic  hosts  with  songs  of  adoration — where  the  ecstacy  of 
spiritual  life  is  expressed  in  melodious  strains — where  har- 
moDy,  such  as  we  can  scarcely  conceive  of,  prevails  amidst 
the  circling  orbs  of  light,  symphonious  with  the  anthems 
that  arise  from  "  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  and 
thousands  of  thousands"  who  worship  around  the  throne. 
Whenever  men,  "  made  but  a  little  lower  than  the  angels  " 
and  made  to  worship  as  angels  worship  would  unite  in 
adoration  their  natural  voice  of  praise  and  thanksgiving 
is  an  outpouring  of  melodious  and  rhythmical  words;  not 
from  any  studied  conclusion  that  this  will  be  acceptable, 
but  from  the  fact  that  it  is  so,  and  that  thus  God  has  made 
us  to  worship  Him.  We  can  imagine  that  when  over  Eden 


"  the  rosy-fingered  hours  unbarred  the  gates  of  light,"  the 
first  utterance  of  man  was  a  song — his  first  words  were 
poetry — and  the  Almighty  heard  it,  as  it  were  the  voice  of 
an  angel.  The  earth  indeed  hath  need  of  poets,  though 
now  their  minds  be  darkened,  and  their  souls  corrupt,  and 
their  imaginations  dull,  and  their  words  feeble  ;  we  need 
them  to  remind  us  of  whence  we  came  ;  for  we  are  traveling 
now  in  far  off  and  gloomy  and  rugged  places,  where  the 
music  of  a  harp  and  the  sweet  words  of  a  song  bring  to  us 
something  like  a  recollection  of  a  home  we  have  wandered 
from,  and  with  the  remembrance  comes  a  pleasing  hope  of 
our  return  ;  where  clothed  in  purity  we  shall  be  permitted 
to  unite  in  songs  of  praise  forever,  and  poetry  will  be  the 
instinctive  utterance  of  our  souls. 


S  T  A.  1ST  Z  A.  S 

ON   AN 

ANCIENT   SUPERSTITION, 

CONCERNING  THE  WORLD'S  DESTRUCTION. 


The  nations  of  Anahuac  believed  that  the  sun,  with  all  mankind, 
except  a  few*  individuals,  had  been  three  or  four  times  destroyed;  that 
another  destruction,  total  and  final,  would  occur;  but  only  at  the 
completion  of  one  of  their  Cycles  or  Periods  of  fifty-two  years,  and 
only  on  the  last  night  of  the  Period,  and  at  midnight.  The  close  of 
every  Cycle  was,  therefore,  a  time  of  awful  anxiety.  Human  victims 
were  sacrificed  on  their  lofty  pyramidal  temple.  Every  spark  of  fire 
in  the  whole  country,  according  to  ancient  custom,  was  extinguished. 
The  people  of  the  A/tec  capital,  led  by  their  priests,  marched  forth 
at  sunset  in  solemn  procession  to  a  mountain  about  six  miles  distant, 
to  await  on  its  summit  their  approaching  doom.  If  the  midnight 
hour  passed  as  usual,  the  event  was  instantly  indicated  by  a  bonfire 
on  the  mountain.  Games  and  national  festivities  followed.  (See 
Cullen's  Clavigero,  His.  Mex.,  I.  p.  iSs.  McCulloh's  Researches,  p.  •_"_>}. 

I  have  supposed  one  aged  priest,  lifted  above  the  superstition  of  his 
people,  dispelling  their  terrible  despondency  by  anticipating  the 
hour, and  secretly  lighting  a  bonfire  on  their  Teocal  or  high  pyramidal 
temple. 


28 


The  night  of  death  with  gloomy  wings  outspread 

Swept  o'er  the  trembling  earth.    Oh,  who  can  tell 
The  woes  it  brought,  when  numbered  with  the  dead 

The  living  seemed,  and  nations  hopeless  fell ! 

Scarce  is  the  mastery  mine,  with  magic  spell, 
One  spirit  to  recall — one  who  had  stood 

That  woeful  night,  a  lonely  sentinel, 
And  watched  the  signs  of  fate,  in  mournful  mood  ; 
But  nerved  with  purpose  bold  and  courage  unsubdued. 

If  to  reveal  the  past  such  spirits  deign, 

And  foregone  tears  of  death  and  earthly  woes 
Be  not  to  them  as  themes  but  idly  vain, 

Him  would  I  pray  that  night's  sad  scenes  disclose; 

For  not  the  gloom  of  death  that  threatening  rose 
Appalled  his  heart  nor  checked  his  purposed  deed, 

Whence  morn  from  midnight  barst,  and  hope  (that  glows 
E'en  on  our  graves)  sprang,  winged  with  joyous  speed, 
And  o'er  each  drooping  soul  her  quickening  radiance  shed. 

He  watched — while  myriads  sank  in  sore  dismay — 

If  all  the  beauteous  stars  that  erst  had  shone 
In  sweet  assurance  of  returning  day, 
Now  harbingers  of  death,  should  one  by  one, 
Fade  from  the  sky  ere  half  their  course  was  run- 
Though  on  his  brow  the  sacrificial  crown, 
Though  cinctured  chief  of  augurs,  he  alone 
Had  dared,  that  night,  the  auguries  disown, 
And  break  the  fatal  spell  that  bowed  his  nation  down. 

Yet  hardly  knew  he  then  the  wondrous  power 
Of  his  own  deed.    As  one,  with  sudden  thought 

Of  inspiration,  climbs  some  beacon  tower 
While  howls  the  midnight  blast,  and  "  ""rt  St!  nought 


29 


C'an  save  the  stranding  ship  whose  helm  is  caught 
By  Death,  in  mocking  guidance— when  on  high 

The  beacons  blaze  !— ana  all  the  fiends  who  wrought 
The  fearful  storm  aghast  and  battled  fly  - 
By  his  bold  wisdom  foiled  who  filled  with  light  the  sky 


Serene  he  «tood  the  sacred  height  upon, 
Where  dripped  the  blood  of  human  victims,  slain 

To  avert  the  fatal  hour.    No  more  the  sun 
Should  rise  (their  prophets  sang),  but  night  regain, 
In  starless  triumph,  her  primeval  reign. 

Thrice  had  the  earth,  convulsed  with  partial  doom, 
Her  stricken  sons  and  daughters  prostrate  seen  ; 

Thrice  had  beheld  returning  day  relume 

Her  happy  fields— and  Life  its  wonted  course  resume. 


Another  Cycle  ends  ;  at  midnight  ends. 

To-night !  and  all,  foredoomed,  but  wait  to  die. 
Their  agonizing  fear  together  blends 

The  strange  portents  of  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 

With  mystic  words  of  ancient  prophecy, 
That  told  the  terrors  of  this  dolorous  night; 

When  star  by  star  should  vanish  from  on  high  ; 
And  prayer,  and  vow,  and  sacrificial  rite 
Should  fall  to  save  one  beam  from  all  the  realms  of  light. 


When  thro'  the  awful  gloom  the  voice  of  man, 

Feebler  and  feebler  heard,  should  pass  away  ; 
And  living  forms  faint,  helpless,  groping,  wan, 

To  loathsome  reptiles  fall  an  easy  prey  ; 

Till  Death,  relentless  still,  should  end  his  sway, 
His  victory  o'er — his  sable  banner  furled — 

And  leave  to  dismal  stream,  and  surging  sea, 
And  crumbling  rocks,  down  the  dark  valleys  hurled, 
To  sound  their  echoing  dirge,  and  mourn  a  lifeless  world. 


30 


So  their  undonbting  souls  in  cl'ildhood  learned  ; 

So  priest  and  sage  had  taught  their  riper  years. 
Whoe  er,  through  stubborn  unbelief,  had  scorned 

Such  fear  of  death,  now  turned  with  bitter  tears, 

And  prayed  for  life  as  darkening  night  appears 
"With  dire  forebodings  of  their  certain  doom. 

Ah  me!  how  could  I  wish  that  woe  like  theirs, 
Long  buried  in  the  oblivion  of  the  tomb, 
E'en  in  a  transient  dream  again  on  earth  should  come  ! 


In  artless  rhyme  I  thought,  forsooth,  to  tell 
Only  of  one  who  durst  with  boldness  stand 

That  tearful  night,  and  all  that  him  befell. 
For  when  their  wairior  host  and  priestly  band 
I  called,  to  bare  their  breasts  at  my  command, 

And  give  their  griefs  and  fears  to  fiil  my  song, 
They  spurned  my  feeble  spell  and  borrowed  wand  ; 

Yet,  words  and  sighs  that  to  deep  woe  belong 

The  naming  of  that  night  wrung  from  the  flitting  throng. 


And  still  they  seem  before  me— still  my  heart 
Hears  their  sad  wail  as  when  they  fled  from  view ! 

What  though  the  boding  sky,  the  silent  mart, 
The  death-like  desolation  spreading  through 
The  homes  of  men — what  though  such  scenes  renew 

Their  dreariness,  and  move  before  mine  eyes  ! 
My  soul  but  sees,  while  tears  my  cheeks  bedew, 

That  vast  and  moaning  throng,  whose  piteous  cries, 

Through  all  the  cheerless  day,  went  echoing  to  the  skies. 


Again  they  seem  to  live.    Each  household  throng, 
From  field  and  hamlet  near  had  come  to  die 

Where'er  their  priests  should  lead  them  :  old  and  youn< 
Friend,  foe — yea,  e'en  the  direst  enemy 


31 


His  feud  forgot,  and  helped  where,  with  a  cry 
Ol  hate,  he  would  hut  yesterday  have  shun, 

O'er  all  the  same  impending  fate  is  nigh  ; 
And  beast  and  hird,  as  with  prophetie  ken, 
Fill  with  unearthly  screams  the  abandoned  haunts  of  men. 


What  first,  what  last  of  grief  I  heard  or  saw. 

I  know  not  ;  for  like  waves  resounding  came 
The  mingling  vision.    Numbed  as  with  an  awe, 

Transforming  to  one  image  all  our  dream 

Of  wreck  or  plague,  or  devastating  flame— 
I  seemed,  where'er  I  turned  my  glance,  to  trace 

The  same—  yet  thousands—  ami  vet  still  the  same 
Woe-smitten  father  with  uplifted  face, 
Pleading  for  a  dear  child  that  wept  in  his  embrace. 


To  my  s  id  thoughts  all  grief  this  semblance  wears; 

For  I  have,  powerless,  watched  my  dying  son, 
Whose  look  I  could  but  answer  with  my  tears, 

The  trustful,  loving  look  that  dwells  upon 

The  memory  forever;  and  in  each  moan 
From  that  vast  throng  I  heard  a  father's  prayer, 

That  on  his  own  thrice-willing  heart  alone 
Might  come  the  pangs  his  child  was  doomed  to  bear, 
Such  tortuiing  pangs  as  filled  the  stoutest  soul  with  fear. 


On  us,  0  Death,  they  cried  !    on  us  he  cast 
The  hideous  doom— on  us  thy  horrors  bring, 

With  all  thy  throes  of  anguish,  all  thou  hast; 
And  from  our  sultering  hearts  with  torture  wring 
The  life-blood  drop  by  drop— and  we  will  cling 

To  thy  cold  hand,  as  to  a  ;riend's.  ()  Death, 
If  thou  our  children  spare,  or  o'er  them  wing 

Thy  way,  like  twilight  o'er  fair  flowers  beneath, 

Wh^se  petals  gently  fall,  chilled  by  the  evening's  breath. 


32 


In  vain  they  plead;  their  frenzied  souls  must  hear 

Their  children's  plaintive  moans,  and  powerless  be 
Their  life  to  save  or  soothe  their  sad  despair. 

Yet,  eie  the  westering  sun  had  touched  the  sea, 

While  swelled  the  maddening  wail,  a  long  array 
Of  white-robed  priests  swept  forth,  who  called  them,  near 

The  holy  Teocal,  once  more  to  pray; 
Perchance  e'en  yet  to  sacrifice  and  prayer 
Some  sign  from  heaven  might  come,  some  hope  their  hearts  to  cheer. 


As  when  to  sudden  march,  at  Moses'  call, 

A  nation  sprang— no  faltering  step  delayed 
Of  age  or  sex  ;  but  forthwith  great  and  small 

Their  homes  forsook,  and  marched  where'er  he  bade. 

So  these  respond— tho'  hopeless  and  dismayed, 
And  stood  in  crowds  the  Teocal  around, 

And  watched  their  priests,  as  up,  with  solemn  tread, 
Now  hid,  now  seen,  from  side  to  side  they  wound, 
Leading  aloft  to  death  their  victims  gaily  crowned. 


Sombre  and  vast,  and  midway  to  the  clouds, 

The  pyramid  upraised  its  towering  head. 
Ah  !  well  the  watchers  know,  when  smoke  enshrouds 

That  far-een  shrine,  some  quivering  heart  hath  bled  ! 

And  well  they  know  a  shriek  was  heavenward  sped, 
That  could  not  reach  their  ears  so  far  below  ! 

There,  woe-begone,  on  trembling  knees  they  prayed, 
Till  down  returned  the  train  with  footsteps  slow; 
Their  garments  crimson-dyed,  that  went  up  white  as  snow. 


And  from  their  midst  a  voice  that  pierced  the  soul, 
Proclaimed,  with  startling  tone,   "  No  victim  slain 

Can  now  the  world's  impending  fate  control ! 
Rise  from  the  dust— your  suppliauce  is  in  vain  ; 


33 


Rise,  and  inarch  forth— a  nation's  funeral  train- 
To  die  where  erst  our  fathers  stood  to  die, 

Nor  shrunk  to  meet  the  doom  the  gods  ordain. 
Let  martial  songs,  and  bursts  of  minstrelsy, 
And  heaven-heard  piean  shouts,  our  own  brave  death-dirge  be  !' 

Then  might  the  eye  behold  (if  eye  there  were 

Could  turn  to  note  another's  dire  distress) 
How  sons  their  aged  sires  did  onward  bear, 

And  mothers  to  their  hearts  their  infants  press, 

And  fathers  stoop  their  children  to  caress, 
Or  calm  their  fears— their  own  lips  blanched  with  fear; 

And  then  were  heard  shrill  cries  of  wretchedness, 
(If  ear  there  were  in  all  that  throng  could  hear 
Aught  else  but  its  own  heart's  wild  throbblngs  of  despair.) 


There  saw  I  one  disheveled,  bathed  in  tears, 

Who,  though  through  life  she  seldom  word  unblent 
With  malice  spake— now  haggard,  frail  with  years, 

Beneath  an  uncouth  burden  tottering  went— 

Her  idiot  son  with  crippled  body  bent. 
His  ear  she  ne'er  had  soothed  with  utterance  mild  ; 

But  lo  !  with  streaming  eyes,  on  love  intent, 
She  raised  him  in  her  arms  and  feebly  toiled 
The  onward  host  to  reach,  with  frantic  sorrow  wild. 


And  stalwart  men  were  uttering  plaints  of  woe  : — 
From  some  distraught  arose  the  desperate  call 

To  venturous  flight  ;  from  some  the  shriek,  or  lo\r 
Sad  voice  of  grief,  or  tone  unnatural 
That  cried  'be  brave,'  yet  brought  fresh  fear  to  all. 

And  one  there  was  who  fled  to  die  alone, 
As  loathing  to  behold  the  piteous  fall 

Of  wife  and  child  beloved— but  heard  their  moan 

And  turned  to  their  embrace — their  fate  shall  be  his  oxvn  ! 


34 


And  some  who  had  themselves  in  caverns  hid, 
Come  forth— still  shuddering  at  the  horrid  scene 

Of  gloom  therein  and  ravenous  beasts  which  did 
With  instant  death  assail  them  ;  but  in  vain 
From  death  they  flee  to  join  the  pallid  train 

Who  march  to  meet  their  doom.    Thy  dripping  dart, 
Thy  sheathless  sword  that  hath  its  myriads  slain, 

Must  pierce,  O  Death,  the  faint,  the  dauntless  heart— 

Mora  strong,  more  subtly  swift,  where'er  they  are,  thou  art ! 

Who  can  escape  ?  Who  nerved  with  hope  innate 

That  clings  to  life,  or  winged  with  crazed  despair, 
Can  thwart  the  stern  omnipotence  of  fate 

Arid  flee  from  death  ?    Urged  by  the  huntsman's  snare 

To  pitfalls  yawning  in  deep  valleys  near, 
Bewildered  sweeps  the  shaggy  buffalo 

Down  from  the  hills ;  and  in  the  lightning's  glare 
The  condor  dies— far  o'er  his  quivered  foe, 
Struck  in  his  cloudy  height  whilst  shunning  fate  below  ! 


II. 


Beyond  the  city  gates  a  mountain  reared, 
O'er  crags  and  chasms,  its  lofty  peak,  whereon, 

In  ancient  times,  whene'er  the  fate  they  feared 
Passed  harmless  by,  the  first  bright  signal  shone, 
Proclaiming,  far  and  near,  the  midnight  gone; 

Then  answering  signals  blazed,  whose  gladdening  beams 
Eastward  and  westward,  northward  and  southward  thrown, 

Roused  the  vast  empire  from  its  doleful  dreams 

To  song,  and  festive  dance,  and  all  that  mirth  beseems. 

At  morn,  the  sun  first  lit  that  mountain  height; 
There  latest  gleamed  when  dusky  eve  had  come, 
hither  went  forth  the  crowd  ;  some,  in  affright, 
With  loud  lament  for  life  implored,  and  some 


35 


In  sorrow  mute—  but  none  durst  wait  their  doom, 
Durst  wait,  alone,  the  midnight  shrieks  to  hear 

Re-echoed  back  to  each  deserted  home. 
Ah  !  tho'  no  hand  can  help,  or  voice  can  cheer, 
The  fainting  spirit  craves  some  kindly  presence  near. 

Yet  had  the  desperate  host  tumultuous  been, 
But  pipes  and  Mai  ing  gongs  in  concert  blent 

Still  urged  them  on,  as,  marching  o'er  the  plain 
And  up  the  mount,  their  toiling  steps  they  bent; 
To  gain  ere  night  should  cloud  the  steep  ascent, 

A  terr 


, 

o  gain  ere  night  should  cloud  the  steep  asce 
errace  sward,  the  rugged  rocks  among; 
There,  while  the  day  a  glimmering  radiance  lent, 
Midway  they  paused  ;  what  time  the  priestly  throng 
To  the  departing  sun  chanted  their  faiewell  song. 


Whither,  O  (Jod  of  light, 

Whither  from  shrines  and  temples,  in  thy  flight 

Nearest  thou  the  brilliant  day 
Swiftly  (Mi  with  flaming  wheels  for  ever  far  away? 

Hasting  in  vengelul  wrath 
To  waste  tny  glories  where  no  hearts  adore; 

Thro'  lurid  shades  borne  on  thy  path 
Beyond  the  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky,  un  worshipped  evermore! 

Lo  !  here  the  clouds  all  night 
Keep  watch  to  announce,  with  gorgeous  hues,  the  birth 

Of  joyous  morn,  whose  golden  light 
Awakes  the  waves  to  greet  thy  beams  with  dance  and  boisterous  mirth. 

And  here,  sweet  groves  and  flowers, 
Bathed  in  thy  warmth,  their  fragrant  incense  yield  ; 

Here  twittering  birds  in  blooming  bowers, 
And  rippling  rills,  the  wooing  breeze,  and  every  teeming  field, 

Their  daily  homage  bring 
To  thy  life-giving  beams  —  while  blithely  sing 

Youths  and  maids  with  kindling  eye 
In  thrilling  melodies  of  love  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 


36 


"When  comes  the  lowering  night, 
They  droop,  and  sleep,  and  dream  of  thy  fair  light; 

If  now  that  light  no  more  be  shed, 
All  nature  sinks  in  endless  gloom— all  hushed  and  cold  and  dead  ! 


O  leave  us  not  to  die  ! 
And  we  will  rear  to  thee  a  golden  shrine 

Whose  lustrous  disk  shall  catch  on  high 
The  morn's  first  beams  that  glistening  o'er  the  eastern  waters  shine, 

And  pour  them  down  to  earth 

From  this  proud  height — that  here  thy  coming  seen 
Shall  earliest  be — and  issuing  forth 
Each  day  we'll  greet  the  bright  returning  glories  of  thy  reign. 

O  still  thy  suppliants  spare! 
O  let  one  lingering  ray  our  path  illume ! 
Send  forth  some  sign  to  calm  our  fear, 
Some  sign  that  still  shall  harmless  pass  this  dreaded  ni^ht  of  doom! 


The  gathering  shades  arise 

To  whelm  each  feeble  ray  before  it  dies; 

The  purpled  clouds  seem  filled  with  blood, 
And  hoarsely  rolls  beneath  thy  car  the  ocean's  crimson  flood. 

O  !  God  of  light,  for  thee 
Behold  our  robes  with  sacred  stains  imbued  ! 

See — from  night's  prison-caves  set  free, 
Dread  monsters  flit,  ard  dismal  Fear,  and  all  her  horrid  brood, 

On  shadowy  wings  are  borne  ! 
Send  forth— O  send  athwart  the  darkening  neaven 

One  glittering  ray  in  token  given, 
That  thou  wilt  still  in  triumph  come,  bringing  the  beauteous  morn 


To  save  one  cheering  beam  to  light  their  way, 
Westward  they  stretch  their  suppliant  hands  in  vain  ; 

And  listless  watch  the  death-bed  of  the  day, 
Till  the  dusk  twilight  fills  the  distant  plain, 


37 


Then  upward  moves  the  melancholy  train, 
With  frantic  grief  or  stern  and  pallid  face. 

And  many  shudder  and  look  back  again 
Thro'  streaming  tears;  and  with  unsteady  pace 
Follow  reluctant  on,  nor  dare  their  steps  retrace. 


Perchance  their  farewell  glance  sad  memory  leads 
To  tombs  near  home  where  they  had  hoped  to  lie; 

While  every  throb  of  nature  in  them  pleads 
To  shun  the  doom  that  calls  them  forth  to  die 
Where  no  surviving  hand  will  close  the  eye, 

Or  to  its  sheltering  grave  the  body  bear. 
Oh!  who  would  perish  where  no  power  is  nigh 

To  shield  the  form  we  leave  all  helpless  heie? 

E'en  welcome  then  might  be  the  bitterest  foe  we  fear! 


On  all  it  loves  the  spirit  may  look  down  ; 

Part  of  ourselves  the  body  is,  to  rise 
Immortal,  and  again  to  be  our  own. 

If  what  we  cherish  here,  in  death  we  prize, 

The  soul,  abandoning  the  happy  skies, 
On  mournful  wing  disconsolate  may  come, 

Lingering  where  its  cold  corpse  unburied  lies; 
As  theirs  must  lie,  to  wither  in  the  gloom, 
Till  the  slow-crumbling  hills  their  mouldering  bones  entomb. 


Or  would  they  still,  still  downward  gaze  as  in 
Cavernous  depths  of  gloom,  and  fondly  seem 

To  catch  with  straining  eye  the  distant  scene  ? 
The  home  of  many  loves,  and  all  they  deem 
Their  own  to  love  forever  ;  for  no  dream     - 

Of  love  destroyed  in  death,  when  death's  keen  dart 
The  suffering  body  slays,  had  come  to  them, 

Chilling  their  hopes,  and  whispering  in  each  heart, 

'•  Stripped  of  its  ties  on  earth,  the  soul  must  hence  depart." 


38 


No,  by  the  undimmed  flame  in  my  own  breast, 
By  every  love-born  blush,  and  sigh,  and  tear, 

By  all  the  gentle  host  of  angels  blest, 

Who  come  from  heaven  to  earth,  and  upward  bear 
To  heaven  our  love  to  those  who  wait  us  there, 

The  powers  of  Death  are  powerless  to  quell 
The  life-long  love  that  turns  to  memories  here, 

And  with  sweet  hopes  unyielding  to  the  spell 

Which  wafts  it  into  death,  looks  back  to  say  farewell 


E'en  scenes  inanimate  that  wake  to  joy, 

Or  soothe  the  soul,  us  with  their  sympathy, 
May  leave  an  impress  Time  cannot  destroy, 

May  leave  an  influence  which  Eternity 

Will  not  efface;  and  if  our  life  to  be 
Lose  not  the  happy  memories  engraven 

Upon  the  soul  while  in  us— who  shall  say 
What  loves  it  may  not  keep  to  mortals  given, 
Or  what  of  earth's  pure  joys  it  may  not  bear  to  heaven  ? 


Perchance  their  tearful  glance  might  now  recall 
The  scene  where  childhood  viewed  the  starry  dome, 

Bent  arching  o'er  their  blest  abode  ;  where  all 
The  world  was  centred,  and  each  lovely  bloom 
Its  birth  -place  had  ;  as  if  for  that  dear  home 

The  sun  was  made  to  shine  and  stars  appear ; 
But  sombre  clouds  or  threatening  storms  would  come, 

As  comes  the  ungenial  shade  of  gloomy  care 

On  boyh  od's  sunny  brow,  unmeant  to  linger  there. 


The  birth-place  of  our  joys,  the  shady  grove, 
The  grottoes  and  melodious  brooks  that  lure 

To  blissful  reverie  or  dreams  of  love  — 
O  !  'tis  not  Nature  bids  the  soul  abjure 


39 


Its  ties  with  scones  so  fair,  wherein  our  pure 
And  hallowed  deeds  we  fitly  chronicle 

From  youth  to  hoary  age,  and  ponder  o'er, 
When  from  the  past  the  thronging  visions  fill 
Our  moon-lit  home,  and  all  save  memory  is  still. 

Dear  home  of  childhood!  some  kind  fairy  dwells 
In  your  enchanted  groves,  and  bids  you  share 

Orr  love,  and  clothes  you  with  her  subtle  spells! 
Sentient  you  seem  ;  your  flowers,  methinks,  may  hear 
The  maiden's  sigh,  when  heaves  her  bosom  near 

Your  blushing  buds,  from  sight  of  all  afar, 
Nor  tell  the  wanton  breeze  that  wanders  there, 

Nor  the  enamored  bee,  nor  twinkling  star, 

That  bosom's  secret  love,  or  what  its  titterings  are. 


There  oft,  with  musing  gaze,  the  sunset  light 
In  boyhood  they  had  viewed  on  dale  and  rill, 

Till  dancing  up  from  shrubby  height  to  height, 
It  glanced  its  sportive  beam  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  from  the  mountain-top,  in  joyance  still, 

Leapt  to  the  clouds,  and  peeped  from  pillows  piled 
Of  beauteous  hues,  ere  Evening  drew  her  veil 

Around  its  couch  ;  then,  like  a  rosy  child, 

It  sank  to  placid  rest,  and  in  its  slumber  smiled. 


In  manhood  too,  when  woke  the  merry  morn, 

.Springing  from  happy  visions,  they  had  led 
Their  dark-eyed  sons,  with  bows  of  polished  horn 
And  dart  and  lance,  through  forests  widely  spread, 
And  smiled  in  praise  when  the  swift  arrow  sped 
Or  when  with  bold  approach  they  slew  the  prey. 

At  eve  their  golden  spear-points  homeward  shed 
The  glittering  gleams  that  closed  the  jflyous  day- 
Far  off  a  mother's  eye  beheld  them  on  their  way. 
4 


40 


But  now  how  changed  !  a  gloom  eclipsed  that  sky 

Unlike  the  gloom  of  eve.    The  awful  shade 
Our  spirits  feel  when  coming  ills  are  nigh, 

Swept,  like  the  wing  of  Death,  their  hearts  dismayed  ; 

And  palsied  Reason  tremblingly  obeyed 
The  tyrant  Fear— her  crown  and  sceptre  gone; 

And  revelling  Night  in  wild  dominion  swayed 
Her  realm  usurped,  and  reared  her  ebon  throne 
In  the  dim  arch  of  heaven— earth,  sea,  sky,  all  her  own  ! 


Appalling  darkness  brooded  o'er  the  land, 

Darkness  as  of  the  tomb.    No  flickering  trace 
Of  light  was  left !    The  shrinking  child,  whose  hand 

A  father  clasped,  saw  not  that  father's  face; 

Whose  livid  form  chilled,  as  in  Death's  embrace, 
Assimilated  seemed  to  what  it  soon 

Must  be,  when  the  faint  throbbing  pulse  shall  cease. 
Yea !  many  sink,  wrapt  in  the  oblivious  swoon 
That  numbs  the  aching  heart— kind  nature's  welcome  boon. 


And  many  cast  themselves  upon  the  ground, 

Haggard,  and  reckless  where  they  die,  and  yearn 
For  instant  death  to  come,  tho'  all  around 

For  life  implored.    Oh  !  hast  thy  bosom  borne, 

O  Earth,  a  scene  so  woeful  and  forlorn, 
Since  struggling  thro'  the  gloom  thy  heights  to  gain, 

Thy  death-doomed  children  crept,  with  toil  o'erworn, 
And  turned  their  prayerful  looks  to  heaven  in  vain, 
While  rose  the  engulphing  Flood  and  poured  the  Deluge  rain. 


Glaring  upon  them  now,  impatient  Death 
Would  fain  anticipate  the  fated  hour, 

And  lurks,  as  doth  some  ravening  beast,  beneath 
The  murky  night,  his  victim  to  devour, 


41 


Crouching  and  watching  with  malignant  lour. — 
But  when  the  wildered  soul,  to  madness  driven, 

All  hope  forsook,  and  prayer  had  lost  its  power, 
Whose  faith  declared  that  help  might  yet  be  given  ? 
"Who  looked  with  trusting  heart  and  pleading  eye  to  heaven  ? 

III. 

He  who,  though  risen  at  my  hehest  he  came, 
Had  deigned  but  brief  reluctant  words  to  speak ; 

And  from  his  reticence  my  spell  could  claim 
No  more  ;  yet  for  my  eager  longing's  sake 
He  seemed  to  cause  the  ancient  dead  to  awake 

And  move  before  me;  and,  methought,  unveiled 
Again  on  hill  and  plain  and  peopled  lake 

The  horrors  of  that  night  their  souls  assailed— 

While  through  the  deepening  gloom  himself  I  still  beheld. 

Alone  he  seeks  the  dark  deserted  shrine, 
Where,  charred  and  stained,  the  fallen  faggots  lay. 

The  helpless  host  he  left,  with  bold  design 
As  wafted  back  on  Mercy's  wings;  while  they, 
His  quick  return  unseen,  toiled  on  their  way 

Up  the  steep  mount,  to  die  when  midnight  came; 
Or  with  wild  shouts  of  joy  their  victim  slay, 

And  news  of  life  'if  life  be  theirs!)  proclaim 

With  waving  toich  and  far  seen  cloud-ascending  flame. 

Majestic  grace  adorned  his  aged  brow 

And  noble  form  erect.    To  heaven  he  raised 
His  thoughtful  face,  still  lit  with  all  the  glow 

Of  ardent  youth,  but  passionless  ;  and  gazed 

In  reverent  mood.    The  sky  awhile  emblazed 
With  stars,  beamed  with  no  calmer  light  than  shone 

From  his  clear  eye.    Tho'  monarchs  sank  amazed 
And  warriors  quailed,  he  came  to  look  upon 
Their  scroll  of  Fa.te  and  its  omnipotence  disown. 


42 


The  priestly  garb  he  wore ;  but  seldom  stood 

With  priestly  crowd  adoring  sun  or  moon, 
Or  gods  whose  altars  reeked  with  human  blood. 

His  gentle  heart  the  love  of  all  had  won  ; 

That  heart's  fierce  conflict  to  them  yet  unknown, 
With  groans  and  tears  he  waged,  as  year  by  year 

The  bloody  sacrifice  he  strove  to  shun, 
Or  strayed  on  solitary  mountains,  where 
With  nature  he  communed,  and  kneeled  in  humble  prayer. 


God  is  where'er  the  human  voice  invokes 

His  mercy  and  his  aid.    On  sea  or  land, 
In  crowd  or  desert  drear,  who  upwai'd  looks 

Seems  in  the  midst  of  heaven's  fair  dome  to  stand, 

Which  spreads  in  silence  round  on  every  hand, 
In  emblem  of  an  all-embracing  love, 

That  guards  each  soul,  yet  doth  o'er  all  expand, 
Pouring  its  gentle  influence  from  above, 
Where'er,  by  day  or  night,  thro'  the  wide  world  we  rove. 


Such  love  he  surely  knew  who  yearning  came 

To  bless  the  sorrowing  and  the  helpless  save. 
When  visioned  to  my  view,  I  sought  his  name, 

His  lips,  responsive  else,  no  utterance  gave. 

WThat  paltry  fame  could  such  a  spirit  crave? 
Let  crested  helm  and  kingly  brows  that  wear 

The  wreaths  of  Fame,  her  empty  glories  have  ! 
To  him  was  given— 't  was  all  he  wished— to  hear 
The  mourner's  happy  song— the  sufferer's  grateful  prayer. 


On  the  high  Teocal,  in  reverie  lost, 
Still  as  a  statue,  save  the  glancing  eye 

That  traced  each  movement  of  the  starry  host, 
He  saw  not,  rising  slowly,  gloomily, 


43 


Like  spectre  giants  far  off  In  the  sky, 
The  mustering  clouds -but  gazed  as  tho'  he  meant 

The  world's  portentous  horoscope  to  try  ; 
Alas  !  how  hard  to  rest  in  faith  content, 
E'en  if  from  God  himself  a  heavenly  guide  be  sent ! 

But  faith  prevai'ed.    "No  will,"  he  said,  "or  thought, 

Or  power,  I  find  within  your  orbs  of  light. 
Tho'  sages  teach  that  your  fair  rays  are  fraught 

With  evil  destinies,  that  all  your  bright 

And  marvellous  host  but  blazon  o'er  the  night 
The  doom  of  realms,  ordaining  kings  to  die, 

And  beautifully  beaming  on  the  blight 
Yourselves  have  wrought,  and  on  crushed  hearts  that  lie 
Pierced  with  your  subtle  shafts  of  cureless  agony. 

"  Falsely  they  teach  !    The  glory  that  is  strown 

O'er  your  mysterious  paths  lie  will  uphold 
Whose  ministers  ye  are,  around  whose  throne 

Ye  tremulously  move  in  awe  controlled. 

And  we  shall  live!  and  you,  even  as  of  old, 
All  impotent  to  harm,  shall  still  appear; 

No  beam  annulled,  no  dire  confusion  rolled 
Amid  your  ranks,  nor  thro'  the  darkened  air 
Shall  nature's  death-song  sweep  from  falling  sphere  to  sphere. 

"  Once  arbiters  of  fate,  your  host  did  seem  ; 

Prophetic  sovereigns  of  all  good  or  ill. 
New-wakened  to  the  thought  of  God  supreme, 

I  come,  as  tho'  His  mandate  to  fulfil, 

I  come  to  break  your  fancied  power— to  still 
The  tumult  of  despair.  No  more  to  me 

Shall  purposeless  destruction  mark  the  will 
Of  nature's  God.  E'en  now,  as  mi  no  shall  be, 
The  souls  of  all,  from  doubt  and  maddening  terror  free." 


44 


But  while  he  spake,  the  lightning  flashing  forth 

Darted  its  signals  thro'  the  distant  air, 
Calling  the  pitiless  storm-God  to  the  earth — 

Slowly  he  turns,  the  altar's  pile  to  rear 

Of  resinous  wood  heaped  up  with  many  a  layer, 
Where  sleeps  the  strength  of  roaring  flames.    But  fast 

The  storm  assails  him,  lifts  his  hoary  hair, 
And  round  him  whirls,  as  round  some  stately  mast, 
Alone  and  tempest-tossed,  that  braves  the  howling  blast. 


Hark  !  on  the  wild  wind  comes  there  not  a  shriek  ! 

Or  do  the  demons  whom  he  dares  betray 
Even  at  their  wonted  shrine,  draw  near  to  wreak 

Their  vengeance  ere  his  proud  words  pass  away? 

Again  that  cry !  the  shrieks  of  agony, 
Pierce  shrilly  from  the  mount  thro'  wind  and  rain 

And  deafening  storm,  and  in  his  sympathy 
Fain  would  he  seek  the  frantic  host  again, 
Whose  horror  would  but  hear  his  soothing  words  in  vain  ! 


But  thundering  round  him  the  fierce  storm  had  come 

Through  the  rent  sky.    And  gleaming  o'er  his  head 
The  lightning  flashed— then  all  again  was  gloom. 

Startled,  as  tho'  a  funeral  torch  had  shed 

Its  glare  into  a  tomb  where  lay  the  dead 
He  mighthave  saved  by  putting  forth  his  hand — 

He  cried,  't  is  done  ! — and  soon  the  blaze  is  spread 
From  layer  to  layer ;  as  speeds  a  lightning  brand 
That  fires  some  mountain -top,  far  seen  through  all  the  land. 


On  many  a  height  throughout  the  darkened  realm, 
Sad  watchers  far  and  near  their  vigils  keep, 

Nor  turn  their  earnest  gaze  from  whence  the  flame, 
By  ancient  rite  first  lit,  should  upward  leap 


45 


Above  the  Aztec  Mount,  and  bid  eaeb  steep 
Its  blaze  respondent  wake.     No  hand  had  done 

Such  deed  before,  had  dared  their  terrors  sweep 
At  once  away— nor  knew  they  if  upon 
The  mount  or  Teocal  the  distant  signal  shone. 


The  flame  burst  forth.    Far  from  the  Teocal, 
With  quickened  step,  the  nt-ro-pri.-st  had  gone. 

None  knew  his  name  who  ventured  for  them  all 
To  break,  ere  yet  the  destined  hours  had  flown, 
Their  spell  of  terror.  Brighter,  higher  shone 

The  daring  signal,  curled  its  lambent  flame, 
And  shot  its  eager  light ;  while  swift  upon 

Its  happy  errand,  each  diverging  beam 

Sped  cheerily  to  bear  glad  news  where'er  it  came  ! 

Mingled  with  thankful  prayers,  shout  after  shout 

Of  sudden  joy  from  far-o ft" cities  rose. 
And  now  the  birds  in  strange  alarm  fly  out 

From  hidden  nests,  now  flap  their  wings  in  close 

And  closer  circles  round  the  flame— as  glows 
From  tower  to  tower  the  ascending  beacon-light 

Thro'  all  the  excited  land,  and  eastward  throws 
Its  gladdening  rays,  and  westward  takes  its  flight, 
Blaze  answering  to  blaze  from  hill  and  mountain  height. 


Skimming  the  lake  it  passed,  and  o'er  the  stream, 

A  band  of  light,  till  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Scattering  its  diamonds,  fairer  than  the  gleam 

Of  Evening-Star,  it  glittered  in  its  rest, 

Its  happy  mission  done. 

What  lips  unblest 
As  mine,  a  nation's  joy  and  loud  acclaim 

For  life  can  tell  ?    When  all  in  garlands  drest, 
With  rapturous  songs  greeted  the  I>ay's  bright  beam, 
That  dawning  o'er  the  east  in  cloudless  brilliance  came. 


46 


My  own  heart  leaped  with  joy  to  hear  their  songs 
And  gladsome  shouts,  while  from  afar  and  near, 

From  echoing  hill  and  dale,  the  merry  throngs 
With  banners  came,  and  called  with  boisterous  cheer 
Throng  unto  throng — and  music  filled  the  air, 

And  thousands  climbed  the  rugged  heights  upon 
To  hold  their  children  up,  tlie  soonest  there 

With  clapping  hands  to  welcome  back  the  sun, 

As  on  their  fair  young  brows  his  golden  radiance  shone. 

Oft  was  the  story  told  in  after  days, 

How  some  mysterious  being  from  on  high^ 
Robed  like  a  priest,  had  lit  the  signal  blaze 

With  lightning-flashes  from  the  stormy  sky. 

And  oft  was  told  how  one,  whose  majesty 
Might  well  have  graced  a  being  of  heavenly  birth, 

Had  taught  that  in  the  stars  their  doom  to  die 
No  more  should  come — but  love  to  man  shine  forth 
In  every  ray  from  heaven  that  reached  the  beauteous  earth. 


ELDRED. 


(1870.) 


The  autumn  sunset  gilds  the  ancient  oaks 
As  with  a  parting  homage ;  they  had  hraved, 
So  many  years,  the  wracking  of  the  storms. 
And  through  their  mossy  festoons  glancing  down, 
As  with  an  homage,  too,  the  sunset  gleam 
Touches  with  softened  rays  the  aged  brow 
And  hoary  locks  of  one  who  stands  beneath 
The  shadow  of  the  oaks;  for  he  had  borne, 
Through  many  years,  the  pitiless  storms  of  fate. 


Behind  him,  with  new,  cheering  flowers  adorned, 
An  humble  cottage  has  replaced  his  old 
Ancestral  mansion,  raxed  by  ruthless  war. 
Before  him  spreads  the  water  of  the  Bay- 
Child  of  the  ocean — with  its  dancing  waves 
And  glistening  sheen,  and  buoyant  slir  of  life. 
Yet  all  unseen  by  him  the  sunset  light ; 
Unseen  the  sportive  waves  and  sheltering  oaks; 
Unseen  all  sights  save  one  that  fills  his  thoughts. 
Shading  his  feeble  eyes  with  palsied  hand, 
He  watches,  still  afar,  the  dipping  sail 
Of  skiff  or  pinnace  flitting  o'er  the  brine, 
Like  sea-gull  with  expanded  wings.    Now  near 
And  nearer  it  has  come,  till  like  a  bird 
It  folds  its  wings  and  rests  upon  the  strand. 


48 


The  boatman  rose,  and  deftly  with  his  crutch 
Struck  in  the  sand — as  some  bold  cavalier, 
These  shores  exploring,  might  have  used  his  lance- 
Leapt  to  the  beach,  as  to  a  spot  well  known, 
And  moored  his  little  craft.    Sore  maimed  for  life 
When  once  he  led  the  assault,  and  forward  bore 
The  battle-flag,  while  round  him  hundreds  fell- 
Sore  maimed  for  life,  a  martial  comeliness 
Still  clothed  his  noble  form,  and  beauty  still 
Sat  in  his  bronzed  cheek.    With  wavy  curls 
Uncovered  to  the  breeze,  he  stood  awhile, 
Like  one  all  unobserved,  and  looked  to  heaven, 
As  though  some  sad  emotion  stirred  his  heart. 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  sheltering  oaks, 
His  father,  in  that  moment,  raised  his  hand, 
And,  with  a  prayer  unspoken,  blessed  his  son. 
Him  Eldred  saw  not;  yet  his  soul  must  needs 
Have  felt  a  quickening  grace  from  heaven  descend 
To  such  a  prayer.    Then  stepped  the  old  man  forth 
And  called  his  son.    And  Eldred  quickly  came 
And  sat  beside  his  father  on  the  shore. 
The  balmy  earth  was  lulled  in  sweet  repose 
Of  eventide  ;  and,  save  the  rippling  waves, 
All  else  was  still.    In  silence  sire  and  son 
Together  sat;  and  from  the  homestead  near, 
A  solitary  bird,  with  noiseless  wing, 
Moved  slowly  through  the  air,  and  westward  flew. 
And  long  they  gazed  upon  its  lessening  form, 
Till  far  off,  toward  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
It  vanished  from  their  view.    Then  Eldred  spake  : 


"  Father,  I  come  to  say  farewell.    What  need 
Oi  such  as  I  am  hath  our  fallen  State? 
The  terms  a  conquering  soldier  freely  gave 
Are  trampled  in  the  dust  by  party  power, 
And  peace  denied  us  ;  vengeance  following  still 
From  year  to  year,  and  still  unsatisfied. 


49 


Disfranchised,  spoiled,  stript  of  our  herltance 

In  freedom's  blessings— shall  we  stay  and  see 
Our  ignorant  slaves  made  masters  in  our  stead  ? 
How  can  we  hear  the  shame!     'Tis  well  — 'tis  well 
Our  ancient  homes  are  leveled  with  the  dust. 
And  nought  is  left  us  but  our  unploughed  fields 
And  our  impoverishment— lest  in  our  halls 
Some  lingering  echo  of  the  past,  some  mute, 
Revered  memorial  of  our  proud  estate 
Might  rouse  us  to  throw  oft'  the  hateful  chains 
With  which  they  subtly  bind  us  in  the  name 
Of  equal  rights  and  liberty  and  law." 


His  father  bowed  his  head,  as  one  whose  heart 
New  grief  assails;  then  sadly  turned  and  said  : 
Eldred.  my  son,  say  whither  wouldst  thou  seek 
A  land  where  brood  no  wrongs— where  lust  of  rule 
And  greed  of  gain  have  not  triumphant  risen? 
I  fear  on  all  these  States  a  change  descends; 
That  public  virtue  a  by-word  will  be. 
And  Freedom  lose  her  charm— which  Heaven  forbid 
O'erpowered,  impoverished. and  almost  abased, 
Though  we  seem  impotent  to  rise  again, 
Yet  must  we  aim  to  rise.    Our  hour  will  come, 
If  we  be  true  and  steadfast  in  ourselves. 
Here  let  the  battle  of  thy  life  be  fought, 
To  efface  our  wrongs,  to  guide  to  peaceful  arts 
And  purer  life  •  ur  liberated  serfs; 
To  fill  the  wasted  land  with  strenuous  men  ; 
To  wake  the  dreamers,  dreaming  o'er  the  past, 
To  prayer  and  hope  and  enterprise  and  toil — 
Our  life-work  in  God's  service  and  the  State's. 
What  freer  land  invites  thy  footsteps  hence? 
What  friend,  with  heart  more  loving  than  my  own, 
Beckons  thee  on  to  fairer  skies  than  these? 
Here  thy  paternal  acres  still  are  thine, 
And  plenteous  crops  await  but  thy  command, 


50 


With  all  the  wealth  they  bring  and  power  for  good. 

Chafe  not  at  Heaven's  decrees.    Our  all  we  staked, 

And  all,  save  our  integrity,  is  lost — 

And  these  bare  fields  !    But  thou  art  with  me  still — 

In  thee  1  live  again.    The  drooping  bird 

That  westward  from  our  homestead  went,  presaged 

My  too— too  grievous  loss,  if  hence  thou  go, 

Thy  loss  to  me  forever" 

Eldred  rose 

With  softened  heart ;  for  fondly  did  he  love 
His  aged  father,  and  had  oft  designed 
To  bear  him  with  him  from  the  saddening  scene 
Of  their  old  home  ;— he  rose  with  humid  eye 
And  looked  upon  the  sparkling  waves,  whose  voice 
Said  "  stay;  "  and  other  waves  and  others  still 
Came  chasing  toward  him  out  from  all  the  Bay, 
And  all  their  voices  in  one  chorus  joined 
To  bid  him  stay;  and  memories,  gathering  fast 
From  by-gone  years,  came  whispering  to  him  "  stay. 


Then  came  his  father  gently  to  his  side, 
As  leaning  on  his  crutch,  in  thoughtful  mood, 
He  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  waves; 
"  Eldred,  dost  thou  remember  how  these  fields 
Were  won,  and  with  their  teeming  wealth  became 
Our  home  ?    An  Eldred  once,  (thou  bearest  his  name,) 
Shipwrecked  and  destitute,  survived  alone 
Of  all  his  crew;  and  on  this  unknown  coast, 
Two  centuries  ago,  was  captive  made 
By  dusky  warriors,  and  was  doomed  to  die. 
But  death  he  courted,  desperate  grown  by  toils 
And  wasting  suffering  ;— cast  by  the  treacherous  sea 
To  perish  on  the  inhospitable  shore. 
Yet  in  his  dauntless,  death-defying  mien 
His  safety  rested ;  for  the  savage  chief 


51 


In  admiration  claimed  him  for  his  own 

And  called  him  son.     And  after  many  moons 

He  led  him  eastward,  where  the  English  flag 

Was  bravely  flying  o'er  a  hardy  hand 

Of  venturous  men.    With  kindly  eye,  the  chief 

Looked  upon  Kid  red's  face,  and  pointed  toward 

The  laboring  colonists;  then  mutely  turned 

And  left  him  there  alone. 


When  Spanish  wiles 

Urged  the  rude  warriors  on  to  ruinous  war, 
'Twas  Eldred's  voice  that  from  the  victor's  stroke 
Saved,  on  this  spot,  the  fallen  chieftain's  life. 
Here  his  last  wigwam  rose  ;  and  Kid  red  oft. 
While  peace  prevailed,  would  come  with  pleasing  gifts 
To  cheer  his  aged  friend— his  dying  friend. 
Yonder  still  honored,  lies  his  humble  grave. 


When  stronger  tribes  united  to  destroy 
Our  few  but  valiant  countrymen,  again 
This  blood-stained  land  its  hard-fought  battles  bore; 
And  for  his  deeds,  to  Eldred  were  assigned 
These  fields,  a  forest  then.    Their  fertile  soil 
He  turned  to  the  genial  sun,  and  beauteous  made 
For  those  he  loved,  this  home — now  mine  and  thine. 


And  hath  not  since  the  cruel  Spaniard  come 
To  seize  these  coveted  lands  ;  and  Indian  hordes 
Of  hated  Yemassee,  in  frightful  raids, 
Dispersed  our  kin,  and.  sacked  and  burned  and  slain 
Through  all  we  held  our  own, and  stronger  grew, 
And  turned  these  fertile  acres  to  the  sun. 
And  our  own  motherland,  through  eight  sad  years, 
Of  unrelenting  war,  her  hired  hosts 


52 


Sent  hither  to  reclaim  or  crush  us  down. 
Yet  still  we  held  our  own,  and  stronger  grew, 
And  turned  these  fertile  acres  to  the  sun. 
And  wealth  returned  with  hospitable  hand  ; 
And  virtue,  with  bold  self-reliance  twinned, 
Garnered  her  treasures  to  enrich  our  hearts. 
Then  thought  we,  in  our  pride,  no  earthly  power 
Could  cope  with  Southern  valor.    Bloody  war 
Jn  vindication  of  our  rights  we  waged, 
Four  years  of  bloody  war — brothers  in  strife 
With  brothers.    Do  they,  crueler  than  all 
Our  former  foes,  disfranehise  and  still  mark 
With  name  of  rebel  our  most  upright  men  ' 
And  wisest ;  and  for  friendship  choosing  force 
Outcast  us— lest  they  lose  their  short-lived  power  ? 
Yet  we  shall  hold  our  own,  and  stronger  grow, 
And  turn  these  fertile  acres  to  the  sun, 
And  deem  no  man  our  master.    Wrong  but  works 
To  undermine  itself— digs  its  own  pit, 
And  God  shall  therein  cast  it.    Stay,  my  son  ; 
Thy  hand  should  lay  these  grey  hairs  in  the  grave, 
And  here  beside  my  fathers,  would  I  rest." 


And  Eldred  strove  to  master  in  his  breast 
The  impulsive  promptings  to  denounce  the  wrongs 
He  yet  must  bear  ;  and  then  with  gentle  hand, 
As  gentle  as  a  girl's,  he  smoothed  the  locks. 
The  snowy  locks  the  ruffling  breeze  had  touched ; 
And  said,  "For  thy  sake,  father,  will  I  stay ; 
And  help  foul  wrong  descend  into  her  pit." 


And  scarce  their  converse  ended  ere  the  beams 
Of  Venus  glimmered  on  the  waves  and  called 
The  loving  Eldred  to  his  timid  spouse 
And  little  ones  and  home  beyond  the  Bay. 


53 


And  rising  cloudless  in  the  east,  the  moon 
Poured  down  her  silvery  light ;  and  onward  sped 
The  pinnace.    Eldred  felt  the  merry  waves 
Lifting  him  up  for  joy ;  and  to  his  ear 
An  utterance  came,  as  they,  with  rippling  notes, 
Would  sing  to  one  they  loved.    His  father  watched, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  oaks,  far  ofT 
The  moon-lit  sail,  that  like  a  sea  gull  seemed, 
With  wings  expanded,  hastening  to  her  nest. 


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